


The Devils Are Here

by ashotofjac



Series: Hell Is Empty...and the Devils Are Here [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Coming of Age, Dragons, F/M, Family, First Love, Romance, ice and fire, tourney
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6070291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashotofjac/pseuds/ashotofjac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To the realm, a promised prince has been born, forged from the union of ice and fire. With a lineage of infamy and ancient magic, Jon of the House Targaryen is heir to the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne. </p><p>Under the rule of King Rhaegar and Queen Lyanna, the realm of Westeros prospers and thrives in a long golden summer, whilst the long-forgotten magic of ages past is restored to House Targaryen. For the first time in centuries, the world knows the splendor of dragons. </p><p>But off to the north, ice and evil stir to life for the first time in a thousand years. Terrible things lurk in the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall, and threaten to spread darkness over the world. An ancient prophecy has finally come to fruition, leaving people of the world vulnerable to the dark will of the Others. </p><p>The dragon must have three heads . . . <i>or so they think.</i></p><div class="center">
  <p>    <b>SEQUEL TO "HELL IS EMPTY"</b><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bloodborne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

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>  **This is the cover art I made (using drawings from cabins' deviantart)**   
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**EIGHT YEARS AFTER THE EVENTS OF HELL IS EMPTY . . .**

The grizzled recruiter of the Night's Watch smelled as terrible as some wild beast. Dressed in rags of faded black, his back as gnarled as an oak and his teeth a mangled yellow mess, Yoren was a sore on the eyes. Especially amidst court, a dark dot on the silken rainbow pallette of lords and ladies. 

"State your business," Rhaegar implored from his iron perch, trying hard not to twist his nose against the putrid stench of his subject. Even from high atop his throne, a great many feet and a flight of steps away, Rhaegar's eyes watered. 

The Black Brother seemed unperturbed at the presence of his king, whilst still minding his courtesies; Yoren knelt dutifully before rising, meeting purple eyes with hard black ones. "If it please you, I've come to recruit for the Night's Watch, Your Grace."

Rhaegar was taken aback. Only a year ago, Lyanna herself had scoured the Red Keep's dungeons clean for the Watch of the Wall. Thirty men - thieves and rapers and the ilk - had gone north to take their vows, and now a Brother was back at his feet begging for more. 

"Your queen supplied the Watch with recruits only a year past," Rhaegar said, not unkindly. 

"Pardon me, Your Grace," Yoren said in a voice like sawdust, "but that weren't enough. Most of them is gone now, felled by the cold and sick and . . ."

"And?" Brandon Stark urged, leaning forward in his seat near the base of the Iron Throne. Rhaegar could practically smell the intrigue dripping off his good-brother; though Hand of the King for years, Brandon was still a northerner at heart and a Stark at that. 

Yoren flicked his eyes swiftly to Brandon, meeting familiar hard eyes, before addressing Rhaegar once more. "Our numbers have been drastically cut, Your Grace. Once we were many, and now we are less than a thousand."

Rhaegar considered this. Many southerners believed the Night's Watch an ineffectual, if not unnecessary, group of commoners that did little more than waste life and resources manning an ancient and useless wonder of the world. All but the north seemed to look down upon the Watch with derision. 

Rhaegar was not such a man. The prophecy of his House, the telling of a savior and his army of foes, was a tale that had been rooted deep inside Rhaegar's soul. The significant dwindling of this old order could only mean one thing. 

"What has happened to steal so many of your men?" he said aloud. 

Yoren seemed to consider his king, searching for something in the dragonlord that, finally, was met. The Black Brother dug into the pouch tied to his breeches, rummaging through the clink of coin, before producing what for he searched. 

His palms were outstretched, melded together, as he offered up what seemed to be . . . a _hand._ A pale hand, lifeless, cut savagely at the wrist, with fingertips black as coal. 

Yoren said, "This was cut off a man that attacked Lord Commander Mormont. I weren't there to see it myself, but Lord Commander ain't no frilly lord playing at games. His word is true. A dead man with black hands and star-blue eyes attacked him, stopped only by the force of fire."

Yoren rummaged again at his side, this time picking out a missive. "This," he said, "is a letter written in the hand of Maester Aemon. He wrote everything that happened down, even examined the wight himself."

 _Wight_. The word sent a cool shiver down Rhaegar's spine. Despite the quiet snickering of the court at what they believed to be foolery, he knew this was no jest, no ploy. This . . . was just the beginning of the prophecy, a sign come to life. He itched to read his great-uncle's letter at once. 

"Brandon," Rhaegar nodded toward the Black Brother, a command. His Lord Hand went forth at once. "We will take the wight's hand for examination and the letter as well." Perhaps Grand Maester Luwin could find something Aemon's eyes had not. 

Yoren nodded, grateful, but still beseeching. 

"And you may have the pick of the dungeons," Rhaegar promised. The prophecy coming to slow, but sure, fruition had his heart stirring to life. His entire being had led to this. _I must see my children_ , he thought with urgency. He wanted to see his promised prince, his dragon's heads, to soothe away the panic of the impending dawn. 

But first, he needed to read Aemon's letter.

* * *

"No, darling, no," Lyanna smiled. "We don't do that."

Valarr frowned into his chubby cheeks, summoning all the disappointment his two-year old self could manage. Instead of questioning her verdict, he just climbed more steadily into his brother's lap, balling his little fists into Jon's dark curls and tugged hard. 

"Ow," Jon grumbled, disentangling Valarr's fingers from his scalp as best he could. "Mother, _get_ him."

Lyanna chuckled, leaning forward to pull her little silver prince into her arms. Valarr wiggled at once, angry at being taken away from Jon. She hushed his indignant cries and carded her fingers through his starlight hair. 

Jon gathered himself and stood, dusting off his breeches and tunic. The sight of him, growing taller as each day passed, the roundness of his youth sloughing away even at eight years old, made her throat burn. He was growing too fast. 

"Where are you off to?" she asked. Dany, Jon's eternal half, had already left to pay respects to the Seven at Baelor's Sept; Rhae was with her grandmother, likely pestering Rhaella into another evening of High Valyrian lessons. Only Valarr and Jon had remained with Lyanna as Rhaegar held court. 

Jon looked down at her with his father's eyes, hiding _something_. "To pray," he said, "in the godswood." As a prince of the crown and heir to Rhaegar, Jon had been raised on both the Faith and the Old Gods. But with his Uncle Brandon and Benjen's influences, as well as her own teachings, Jon was more inclined to the northern way, often shirking devotion at the Great Sept for isolation in the godswood. 

His piety had only grown more resolved in the past couple of years, ever since Magister Illyrio of Pentos had paid his visit to King's Landing. With the arrival of Rhaegar's and her third child two years ago, the capital had swarmed with nobility of Westeros and Essos, all come to pay their respects. They'd showered the royal family with extravagant gifts: magnificent swords, cloth-of-gold, horses of astounding breeding, silver finery, ruby-crusted diadems and crowns. 

Magister Illyrio had come late, the last of all Essosi princes and sealords and magisters and Archons to bear gifts. He'd arrived with a horde of his estate, flanked by two dozen of his Unsullied slave soldiers. She and Rhaegar had welcomed this friend of Varys' with polite warmth, but only Lyanna was wary, unable to forget the night nearly nine years ago when she had overheard Illyrio and the spymaster discussing King Aerys' fate in the dungeons. 

Illyrio had paid her suspicion no mind, bowing to his queen and king as best he could around his rounded belly before ushering forth his servants with a sharp whistle. Four men, dressed in black leather and pointed steels caps, marched forth; they were folded nearly in half by the weight of a great oaken chest that was banded by iron. 

When they had set it on the ground before the Iron Throne, it seemed as if the world shook with it. Illyrio himself had drifted forth to unlock the chest, smiling briefly but meaningfully at his king with golden teeth before lifting the lid. 

To this day, Lyanna could still recall the shock and awe that rocked her to the core. Four eggs there were, a quartet of eons-ancient stone that lay on a bed of pale silks and damasks. Jon, only six then, had gasped and wound his hand around Dany's; the silver princess had stood still in disbelief. 

"Dragon's eggs from the Shadowlands beyond Asshai, Your Grace, for the dragons of Westeros." Illyrio stepped back and swept an inviting hand out. 

With Rhaegar, Lyanna had stepped closer for a better look, allowing Rhae and Dany to climb into her lap as Jon went into his father's arms. 

Up close, the eggs were ancient treasures. Each one was splendid in its own right, boasting a different beauty than its siblings. The first was chipped with onyx scales, an egg of midnight but for the glint of scarlet that was veined through in whorls. 

"Can I," Daenerys breathed low in worship, "touch it?"

Lyanna and Rhaegar met eyes, sharing a thought, and nodded together. Dany had climbed from Lyanna's lap and took the black egg in her palms, lips parting as she sighed. 

The second egg was green-and-bronze by turns, flashing beneath the torchlight. Jon went forth and carefully took it into his arms. 

The third was pale, cream scales that were streaked with gold. Rhae squirmed from her mother's lap, leaning over the chest as best as she could at the time with her shaky little legs. Rhaegar had plucked the cream egg from its bed for her, holding it out for his daughter to touch. 

The last egg was the most beautiful. It shone brilliantly, seemingly forged of pure silver. Lyanna picked it from its spot, the chest now bare, and held it up with trembling hands; as she turned the egg this way and that, it shimmered like polished metal, catching the light. 

"Valarr's," Rhaegar whispered. "We must lay it with him in his crib."

Lyanna had known then that her husband's prophecy was coming finally alive. 

Ever since, Jon and Dany had not gone a day without praying over their treasures. They woke to say their godly words over the dragon's eggs, and went to bed with them in their clutches. 

And now, eight years old and fidgeting beneath his mother's scrutiny, Jon was itching to pray. 

"Go on then," Lyanna finally said. "Tell the Old Gods of my thanks and send love to your grandfather."

Jon smiled softly and accepted a prim kiss from Lyanna, then a sloppy one from Valarr, and raced from the room. 

It was hours later that Rhaegar finally came to their apartments, looking every bit of exhausted, but with a fire in his eyes that bespoke of thrill and fear. Lyanna was on edge at once, standing from her perch at the open window where she had been breathing in the night sky. 

She knew her dragon well enough to realize when something was crawling beneath his skin. "What is it?"

"I received grievances from a sworn brother of the Night's Watch today," he mumbled, shedding his doublet before shucking his tunic. 

Lyanna frowned. Had it even been a year since last they supplied the Night's Watch with men? "And?"

"It's beginning," he whispered. "The recruiter spoke of wights. One attacked their commander." Rhaegar inhaled deeply. "The dead are stirring to life."

The floor seemed to warp beneath her feet. Terror clawed at her throat. Old Nan's voice echoed in her head, repeating stories of the fabled Others. "You don't mean...?"

Rhaegar nodded, eyes flashing amethyst beneath the amber glow of her candles. "Uncle Aemon seems to believe these are dead of the prophecy. This is the first sign of eternal darkness."

Cold terror ripped through her like a scythe. "What are we to do?"

For the first time tonight, Rhaegar smiled. "Nothing, my love. We do not do anything."

" _Nothing?_ " she repeated with incredulity. 

"The dragon has three heads," Rhaegar repeated his beloved words, but for once they did not drip with certainty. 

Lyanna dreaded of thinking of her children in danger. She could not stand to think of her serious Jon or excitable Rhae or little Valarr going up against foes of ice and evil. No prophecy was worth the pain of losing her blood, of that she knew. 

She meant to speak up, interject on behalf of their babies, but a frantic knock at the door had her mouth sealing shut. Frowning at the intrusion, Rhaegar went to open the door. It revealed her brother Benjen, looking stern for once in his life, and beside him a Goldcloak who wore an expression of pure and utter _horror_. 

"Your Grace," the man panted, tears making his eyes glassy. "It's the prince. And the princess."

Lyanna strode forward, heart pounding at once. "Valarr? Rhae?" The two were known to cause trouble, but no antics of theirs had ever warranted such panic in a person. 

The Goldcloak turned his glassy eyes to hers. "Prince Jon and Princess Daenerys."

Lyanna blinked, uncertain she had heard him right. "Pardon?" Jon and Dany were the least likely of the royal children to cause problems. When the man did not answer, Lyanna grew angry. "Where are my son and good-sister?!"

The man looked near to faint. "You have to hurry," he sniffled, eyes going wide. "It's . . . an abomination."

He ran away then, not slowing even after she and Rhaegar raced after him uncertainly and hinging on panic. The Goldcloak's hysteria was potent enough to taste as she sprinted in his wake. Her mind was all atangle, tendrils of thoughts reaching out to a thousand different possibilities. 

Was Jon hurt? Was Daenerys dead? Had they been kidnapped? Were they held hostage by some unknown enemy?

In the yard, horses were readied quickly and then they were riding through midnight in the city, still unanswered of any of their queries to the spooked 'Cloak. Smoke's hooves clacked loudly against the street, drowning out the beat of her heart as Lyanna rode. It wasn't until they approached Rhaenys' Hill that she began to notice the people. 

All around they stood, gathering into a clot in the streets that warranted the shouts from the retinue of Kingsguards they'd taken. The people parted uneasily, barely glancing at their royals as they rode through. 

The going up was slow, but it was easy to make out the Dragonpit sitting atop Rhaenys' Hill. Blackened and unused for centuries, its dome had collapsed and its towering bronze doors had been closed for good. 

Until now. 

Open, they were thrown, and coughing up thick plumes of smoke. The Goldcloak that had led them there cried out, pointing frantically. Lyanna leapt from her horse without thinking, tearing through the crowd with a ferocity she had never known. Rhaegar's hand tangled through hers, pulling her even faster. The Kingsguard raced ahead, clearing a path. 

When Lyanna passed into the belly of the pit, she pulled the collar of her tunic over her face to mask her nose and mouth. Instantly, her eyes burned, hardly able to see an arm's length before her. 

"Jon!" Rhaegar roared desperately. "Dany!"

It was silent for a few moments, the air still and quiet inside the ruined husk of the Dragonpit. And then, low, a screech. Followed by another, and a delighted _hissing_ sound. 

Wide-eyed, Lyanna followed the sounds to the eye of pit. The smoke was thinner here, swirling as it moved. Lyanna waved a hand before her face, aware of Rhaegar coming to stand beside her as she dropped her tunic back in place. 

When the smoke wafted away and the floor began to clear, it was all she could do not to clear her stomach all over herself. Sitting with their legs entwined, clothes burned nearly off, were Jon and Daenerys. Their heads of hair, dark and silver, were singed to crisps and their skin soot-streaked. 

And around them, crawling all over them, were beautiful, once-extinct beasts. The black-and-scarlet coiled around Dany's throat, its neck nuzzling her own. The green had found residence on Jon's shoulder, nipping lightly at his skin. The other two, one pale cream and one pure silver, were roaming about them restlessly, searching for some master to call their own. 

"What," Lyanna breathed just as Rhaegar whispered, "By the _gods_."

Jon and Dany looked up together, strange purple eyes glinting, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.


	2. A Budding Garden

**FOUR YEARS LATER**

The wide span of the black beast's wings blotted out the sun as it rose into the heavens. Higher and higher and higher still it flew, Daenerys just a pale thing astride its neck, until both rider and dragon were only mere dots in the sky. 

"Papa," Valarr eagerly spoke up, clinging tight to Rhaegar's back, "I want to go high, too. l want to touch the sky!"

Rhaegar frowned. Despite the silver hair, the pale purple of his eyes, and the name he bore to the world, Valarr was every bit his mother's son. Willful and wild and unafraid of showing it, the wolf's blood was strong in him, as it was in Brandon, and then Lyanna. Small wonder that his mother was Valarr's favorite person in the world. The pack roamed together and all, and Valarr was a Stark child if there ever was one. 

"Papa," Valarr urged again, desperate for his father's blessing. 

Rhaegar's frown deepened as he looked up, searching the blue, and squinted against the golden wink of the midday sun. Dany's beast - Drogon, she'd named it, for the strong copper-skinned horselord, Khal Drogo, that had once graced court at the side of Magister Illyrio and briefly captured her eye - had flown her somewhere far above, nearly disappearing. 

Jon and Rhaegal, the green-and-bronze dragon named for Rhaegar himself, soared circles around the clouds, whilst Viserion, Rhae's pale cream beast titled for her favorite uncle, chased excitedly after them, naked without its rider. 

Only Valarr's dragon had stayed behind, a silver-and-smoke coil resting peacefully on the vast plains near the kingswood. Āegion, the fourth dragon was called, a word of High Valyrian that meant _iron_. Valarr had chosen it himself, nearly a master linguist now at six for the tireless efforts of his grandmother. Āegion was aptly-named, for the dragon shone like raw iron beneath the light of the sun, and with Valarr had forged a hard and unbreakable bond. 

But for the fierceness of their connection, Rhaegar still feared to allow his youngest so high, despite the child's propensity for flying. Unlike Jon and Dany and even Rhae, Valarr was still _so small_ , only a fresh six years old to Rhae's ten, Jon's twelve, and Dany's thirteen. 

"Uncle!" a second voice joined in. Little Arya, his second niece and perhaps his favorite, peeked her head over the long metallic sliver of Āegion's tail. "Can we fly?"

She had asked every day since she had arrived to King's Landing with her father, forging an alliance of sorts with Valarr that proved both tireless and fruitful. More often than not, their combined efforts earned them success in whatever endeavors they had chosen to pursue. She had only been at court for a fortnight, and they were thick as thieves already. 

Rhaegar felt a chunk of his resolve crumble. "Little wolf," he said, "it is unsafe."

Valarr kicked his small legs and coiled his arms tighter around Rhaegar's neck. "Papa, _please_. We'll be careful. Āegion won't let us fall!"

Rhaegar's eyes fell closed. He had a difficult time denying his children anything, and from every text and tome he had read, it was said that the fiercest dragonriders had done so since youth. Refusing Valarr his proper practice and time would only hinder his abilities in the future. In the war that was to come...

Sensing Rhaegar's hesitance, Arya got to her feet. "Please, Uncle, _please_." 

One more look at her - tangled hair and iron eyes, a mirror image of Lyanna if ever there was one - had him reluctantly nodding. The two children cheered and quickly went to work setting up the harness around Āegion's neck. 

The harness had been a design from Tyrion Lannister himself, only mere plans to begin with, but extraordinary - evolutionary - ones at that. Each of the children had been made one, though none loved to ride their dragon so much as they did bareback and free. 

Rhaegar helped strap the harness to Āegion's slender neck, tying Valarr in first, and then Arya. Āegion, for all his strength and size, waited patiently as the children climbed on, wiggling excitedly as they grasped at his silver scales; four years old, the dragon was growing larger and larger, but still a youngling in many ways. 

Nothing like Viserion and Rhaegal, who would snap wildly at each other over meat, or Drogon, who was the incarnate of the Dread himself, casting shadows over cities and plains alike. The smallfolk of King's Landing still had yet to grow used to the fearsome beasts that roamed their skies. And they likely never would, which was why, more often than not, Rhaegar took the children to fly beyond the city limits, where only nature could witness their spectacle. 

"Ready?" he asked, tugging against the straps over the children's laps. 

Arya held tight around Valarr's waist and nodded, her eyes fever-bright in their excitement. Valarr shouted, "Yes!" and Āegion purred, stretching its muscles.

Rhaegar stepped back finally and lifted his chin. When Valarr yelled his command, the dragon took off carefully into the air, flapping its wings slowly to beat the air. As it climbed, Rhaegar could only marvel and smile, albeit with fearful wonder. A grey beast, Āegion soared, going high enough to shade the sun, until for one splendid moment it seemed as if the moon itself had emerged to glow silver for the lovely summer day.

* * *

Later, when the sun went to sleep beyond the horizon, he found Lyanna alone in their rooms. She was naked in their pool, bathing away the grime of a day of horse-riding with Ned and Bran and Rhae and little Margaery Tyrell. The Red Keep was positively crawling with Starks and Tyrells, wolves and roses both having come to celebrate the official betrothal of the king and queen's only daughter to Willas, heir of Highgarden and future Warden of the South. 

Rhae was the first of their three children to be betrothed, and yet the most difficult to choose for. Rhaegar and Lyanna had entertained the idea of many partners for their only daughter, attempting to juggle the consideration of political alliancing with Rhae's ultimate happiness. Suitors had come and gone in their minds - heir to the Vale, a brother of the Hightowers, the Tarly boy who was so meek and well-read, or even Arthur Dayne's nephew, Ned. 

In the end, none had been so fine a match as the oldest son of Lord Mace Tyrell and Lady Alerie Hightower, Willas - a gallant young man with curly pale brown hair and large golden eyes; with Willas and Rhae's alliance, the crown would boast even mightier strength against any and all foes. 

House Tyrell not only offered a young and healthy heir, they fielded the greatest army of the realm and called on a navy that surpassed even the royal fleet. Their trade routes raked in considerable wealth, and their farmlands were rich in production. With this union alone, Rhaegar's reign, and the future reign of Jon, would be secure in spears and swords and ships, whilst the mouths of their people never went hungry. 

And Willas had been Lyanna's pick from the start. 

Lyanna smiled when Rhaegar stepped through the room, raising a coy brow as he hurriedly stripped himself of his clothing. With the children being readied for the night's feast, he and his wife were free to spend the next hour as they pleased. 

The water was cool when he finally sunk into the bath, a balm to his sun-warmed skin. Lyanna immediately climbed into his lap, bending to press slick kisses around his collarbone. "Where have you been all day?" she murmured. 

Rhaegar's head fell back against the tile and his hands went to her naked waist. "I took the children flying."

He felt her smile on his skin, soft and warm and amused. "How are the beasts?"

"Growing larger every day," he said, "and more fearsome."

"I was talking of the children," she chuckled. 

He grinned. "So was I."

Lyanna raised her head to kiss his mouth, then pulled away; despite their teasing, worry was drawn into her face. "Do you think Rhae is scared?" she wondered. 

"Rhae is never scared," he answered easily. They had made sure of it, together, raising her to be bold in politics and riding and all other things a Stark-Targaryen child should know. 

"She is still so young," Lyanna sighed wistfully, dropping her eyes as she played her fingers absently against his slick chest. He wondered if she thought of Rhaella now, their first little girl that had never lived. 

"Ten is a respectable age for betrothal," Rhaegar assured her. "And besides, Rhae will not marry the boy until she is seventeen. Seven years is a long time."

"So is a lifetime," Lyanna reminded him with a frown. "I know that I picked Lord Willas myself; I only hope that his nature has not changed since last we met him."

Rhaegar felt fatherly protection rise up in him. "Willas is kind. And the Tyrells would never risk Rhae's unhappiness. She is a royal princess, a daughter to the crown _and_ the North, and the bonded rider of one of the four only living dragons in the world." He knocked a knuckle beneath Lyanna's chin and kissed her full on the mouth. "Even roses wilt beneath fire, my love."

At that, Lyanna finally showed a smile. "I suppose we will have to find Jon a suitable bride next."

Rhaegar's chest thudded queerly; his eldest held a special place in his heart. It was difficult to even imagine Jon as a husband, let alone a _man_. The boy was growing taller every day, serious and kind and a learning warrior. The _Dark Prince_ his lords called Jon, for his hair and eyes and demeanor. 

But to Rhaegar, it was his first son, his promised prince. 

"Yes," he agreed, his mind wandering. 

Lyanna continued. "Maybe to Wynafryd Manderly in White Harbor. Or to my utter disgust, a Frey girl. Despite their nature, House Frey is powerful. Maybe the daughter of Greyjoy. Maybe Dany . . ."

Rhaegar was too distracted by her skin sliding against his as she thought aloud. "Yes," he agreed once more, "we will find Jon a girl soon. But not tonight. Tonight is for Rhae and the Tyrells and our family. And..." He pulled her tight to him, her legs spreading easily over his lap. "Love."

Lyanna giggled. "We've no time for that, Rhaegar. The feast begins soon, and I still have to dress and have the maids ready my hair."

He frowned playfully and let his hands drift to the soft insides of her thighs. "I can think of much better things to . . . _fill_ your time with than dress up, Your Grace."

A soft smirk played at the edges of Lyanna's mouth. "Oh, I'm sure, my king. But the feast is within the hour and we are still soaking wet."

"That is not such a bad thing in my book." He leaned forward and laid the flat of tongue against her throat, dragging it up the column of her neck. He heard her shiver more than he felt it. Suddenly, a pair of hands wound their way into his hair, pulling until he moaned into her jaw. 

"We have to be quick," she sighed, leaning her chest into him. 

Rhaegar smiled, trailing the pads of his fingers down her body until he reached that soft place between her legs. "I promise."

* * *

As it turned out, Rhaegar's promise meant little and less. An hour late to the feast, they waltzed into the throne room to be met by a crowd of knowing stares. Lyanna shifted awkwardly beneath the amused scrutiny, still unaccustomed to attention even years after her coronation, but Rhaegar could not muster up even the slightest bit of embarrassment. 

Every obstacle he and Lyanna had faced so far in their marriage far surpassed the measly knowledge that their lords and future good-family were aware of his carnal tryst with own wife. Together they had overcome mutual distrust, the dark pleasures of his father, the miscarriage of their first child, and the unsteady lies of a former grand maester. They could handle fat Mace Tyrell's insufferable smirking. 

Despite their tardiness, the people rose for their king and queen as Rhaegar escorted Lyanna to the table. Instead of a dais, there was one long table made by linking several trestle tables to signify the future union of the dragon and the rose. 

Mace Tyrell and Alerie Hightower were already present, along with Willas, Loras, Garlan, and young Margaery. There was Olenna Tyrell and her two towering guards, an entire slew of cousins and nieces and nephews. Ned Stark had come to the capital, leaving behind his wife and heir and baby, but bringing with him Sansa and Arya and Bran. Beside them were Benjen and Brandon, Ashara and the ever-growing Arra. 

Even Viserys had come, bringing with him his wife, Arianne, a dark beauty of Dorne.

Rhaella was near the head of the table, surrounded by the royal children. Jon and Dany had both been dressed in red finery, while Valarr was done up in smoke and steels colors. Rhae, the princess of honor, wore a dress of white, a nod to her mother's line and a vision of purity. 

The feast began politely, if not stiff, but grew in cheer as the families of Targaryen and Stark familiarized with the Tyrells. 

It was a joyous occasion for Rhaegar who, despite his assurances to his wife, still worried over "selling" his children into marriages. As the night wore on, Willas and his brothers made Rhae laugh again and again, while Lyanna made fast friends with Lady Alerie. 

When Rhaegar called the musicians forth and for the tables to be moved back, Jon and Dany were the first to be out on the floor, the Dark Prince and the Silver Princess spinning expertly on the marble; not to be upstaged, Rhae followed with her betrothed, then Viserys and Arianne, Lyanna and Ned, young Sansa and Garlan, and small Margaery and her brother Loras. 

Rhaegar sat back at the table, surrounded by cheers and laughs and smiles, his own grin wide and bright as he watched his growing family. Rhae would be happy with the Tyrells, he knew now, safe until it was time for her and her dragon to be called forth to the dark war. 

He would find Jon a bride to equal his own strength, and Dany and Valarr mates as well. He would see them all happy, all educated and trained as the long summer ended and winter finally came for the four heads of the dragon and their realm. 

"What are you thinking so hard on?" Rhaella asked from his side, leaning close to cup his jaw. 

Rhaegar could only shake his head, unwilling to spoil the evening with talk of foes in the darkness. "My sons and who they will marry," he answered instead. 

Rhaella considered this with an amused twist to her lips. "Jon will need not just a wife, but a _queen_. Someone who will inspire both love and fear, who could win over lords just as easily as she could conquer them." She paused and a fond smile bloomed over her face. "And Valarr . . . will need a girl that can keep up with him."

Rhaegar laughed. "Truer words have never been spoken, but I fear there may be no such lady," he said as his eyes contentedly searched across the joyous Great Hall. 

He saw Jon and Dany spinning in the middle of the floor, laughing and smiling; he saw his wife now in the arms of her eldest brother, and Lady Ashara with Benjen; he saw his little Rhae, the honoree of the feast, holding one hand out for her betrothed, Willas, and the other out for her cousin Arra, dark-haired and violet-eyed with her father's smile. And then, like two lean wolves in the night, he spotted them: Valarr and Arya, sneaking around the Iron Throne with little steps and glittering eyes, looking every bit the mirror image of the king himself and his wolf queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For those who are readers of "Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken," it will be updated this Saturday!**
> 
> **Also, if anyone is getting confused as to why the first few chapters have time jumps: it's because the true bulk of the story is going to happen when the children are in their teenage years, so I'm "jumping" through their childhood whilst highlighting major events, before we stop at their teens!**


	3. Monsters of Sea and Sky

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

The missive was nearly dust in Rhaegar's fist by the time Lyanna found him slouched over an overturned inkpot and a dying candle. 

"Rhaegar," her voice was kiss-soft and her touch even softer. The warmth of her fingers made his skin hum in anticipation of their bed, where only darkness and silk and skin reigned. Beneath their canopy, there were no pleas for help, no longships raiding the coasts, no rebellions simmering in salt. Only him, and only her. 

It was times like these Rhaegar hated being king, though he knew no reign had ever known only peace. Kingship meant hardship; no crown was kept with cloud dreams and sugar fantasies, but with the prophecy weighing heavily still on his shoulders, he almost wished he never been born a prince at all. The Others could go fuck themselves if it meant a boring, safe life with a family he loved.

But that, sadly, was only a boy's dream. Sensing his quiet distress, Lyanna massaged his scalp. "What is it, love?"

Rhaegar held up his clenched hand, the edges of parchment fanning out like talons. "Iron Islands," he whispered tiredly. "Victarion Greyjoy has landed on Lannisport in the name of his brother, styled _King Balon of House Greyjoy_ , and set the Lannister fleet to burn in the harbor. Ser Kevan writes that the fires could be seen all the way from the Rock."

"Gods . . ." Lyanna's eyes were wide and the dark grey of a coming storm. "And what of Tyrion? Is he unharmed?" Tyrion was a favorite of Lyanna's ever since he had come to court to visit Ser Jaime; he was a far better Lannister than the late Lord Tywin or the now-married Lady Cersei, and kept Lyanna and the children entertained with stories of dragons and wyverns. 

"Safe," Rhaegar promised. "He is with his uncle. The Greyjoys are seamen, not soldiers. They will likely never penetrate Casterly Rock, but with the Lannisters' fleet burned to ash, Seagard is open for attack. The coastlines will be raided to high hell."

There was a stubborn jut to Lyanna's jaw that made him think of his niece Arya. "We must send birds to Mace Tyrell, the Shields, and the Arbor at once then," she said with an iron tone. "Seagard was raised to protect against reavers, but this false king's name is a taint on your dynasty. It must not spread. Balon Greyjoy's rebellion is still a newborn babe that can be slain in its crib."

Despite the levity of their problem, Rhaegar could not suppress his smile. Lyanna was a queen, a wolf, a wife, and a _lover_. But she was also his dearest friend and sternest advisor. He could trust her truths better than anyone else's, and welcomed her input on the welfare of both their family and the realm. Forget his dreams of being the Conquerer reborn; they were Jaehaerys and Good Alysanne come again. 

"I'll call in the Grand Maester." Rhaegar went to the door, sent his page in search of Luwin, and then sat heavily on the bed. Lyanna came between his knees, letting her hands fiddle with the ties of his tunic until the top half of his chest was bared. The glint of the crown that still lingered on her brow had the evening's earlier festivities rushing back - the feast and their family gathered in the Queen's ballroom, torchlight glinting off the silvered sconces and the laughter echoing. 

"Jon," he sighed sadly. 

Lyanna glanced up through her lashes and gave him a melancholic smile. "Our first dragon to fly from the nest."

Rhaegar frowned. "Only for a few years." It was more a statement to reassure himself than his wife; fostering Jon at Winterfell, after all, had been _her_ idea. 

"He will be fine. He will be with my brother, he'll have Rhaegal with him, and he will grow to know his cousins better. Besides," she toyed with a lock of his silver hair, "Jon should know the kingdoms he will one day inherit. The south is all he has ever known, it is past time he learned the north, too."

Her words made sense, but it did not stop his heart from aching. His first boy, his promised prince, the child that he had prayed for and waited on. It was difficult to agree to let Jon go, even harder tonight to sit at his farewell feast. The morrow would be the hardest yet. 

"At least the ironborn stay away from the north. But still, I mislike sending Jon off without even the promise of a bride."

"He is only twelve," Lyanna reminded Rhaegar. "Almost thirteen. Marriage can wait."

" _Marriage_ , yes, but his is a ripe age for betrothal."

Lyanna slipped her hands up Rhaegar's neck, turning his skin to tingling. "Choosing a queen is no easy feat, and I have suggested many a girl. House Manderly has several daughters of a similar age. There are the Blackwoods, the Mallisters. You are just too fickle." She sighed. "If only Tyrion would get to making a daughter. All our problems would be solved."

Rhaegar snorted. "And Robert Baratheon only seems to churn out sons, otherwise we would have the insurance of the stag. What is his firstborn's name again?"

"Gendry," she told him. 

"Right."

Lyanna bit her lip. "We could always betroth Jon to Lord Balon's daughter. Asha, I believe she is called. She is of an age, and hosting her here would keep her father in line."

"So we would make the girl a queen as reward for her father's treachery? No. I would not sell our son's heart for so cheap a price."

"Nor I," Lyanna argued. "I am only trying to think of the future. Should Greyjoy ever attempt another rebellion, we must have leverage. Forget the girl then, Balon has many sons. Invite one to court. Or better yet, have Ned take one as ward."

Rhaegar took his wife by the hips. "That is a better idea. But first, we must crush this treason. If Greyjoy _has_ any sons left by the time this rebellion is put to rest, I will send one to Ned and hold another at court." 

Lyanna leaned into his embrace, and allowed his mouth to linger on the swell of her chest. Then, in a small voice, she said, "If only the children were older."

Rhaegar quirked a brow but did not stop kissing her, from her chest to arch of her collarbones. "If only . . .?"

He heard her soft laughter, and a moment later her hands were curled in his roots. "Then we could show the Greyjoys that even saltwater is no match for dragonfire, as Aegon and his sisters did once."

Rhaegar hummed. "A sea of fire. I like the way you think, my love. It would be the first time dragons were unleashed in war in centuries. Could you imagine the faces?"

"Drogon is a beast from hell already. No man could defy the crown if he was unleashed at war, let alone all four. But these are only dreams. Our children may be excellent dragonriders now, but they are not soldiers. I would not put them at risk when their life is only beginning."

"Yes," he agreed. "But there will come a time when they must fight. And it will be no mere rebellion plaguing our dynasty."

Lyanna grew quiet, as she always did when the Long Night and the dragons' heads were mentioned. After a few moments, she murmured, "We will find Jon a bride soon. Perhaps a tourney can be held, as when you found me."

"Perhaps," he allowed. "One thing is for certain."

"What's that?" 

Rhaegar looked out their window. The sky was darkening, but the wash of Drogon's red breath was visible even from a distance. He tore his attention away and looked into Lyanna's eyes. "Jon's bride will need not shy away from dragons, or else I fear she will make no Targaryen queen at all."

* * *

Despite the warm glow of the torch in his hand, Jon Targaryen could hardly see a thing before him. At least back in the dungeons, he had been able to make out shadows, shapes of forgotten relics, the distant hint of firelight; but eventually the dungeons had given way to unsturdy ground, loose rock and dirt instead of dressed stone, and with every passing step, it grew darker and darker still until it seemed as if the Long Night had returned at last. 

Dany's hand closed suddenly around his, making him jerk in surprise as she shuffled close against his back. Her heat gave him a little thrill, and Jon had to take a steadying breath. He was twelve years old, nearly thirteen, and far too old to be blushing at Dany's touch. "Faster," he whispered over his shoulder. 

A distant clank rang out, but they kept moving. He could only hope that the Kingsguard hadn't caught them, otherwise he would be subjected to one of Mother's stern lectures before he rode for Winterfell. Such talks were usually reserved for Valarr who, even at six, was proving a worthy menace. Valarr was, after all, who had first shown him the sewers that led out to the dregs of the city. 

Valarr had begged Jon not to tell Mother or Father, and Jon had agreed, if only to use the secret escape himself as well. It was tonight that he had gathered enough courage to use it, for Grand Maester Luwin had pointed out the star shower the gods had sent for his last night in the south. Dany was enamored by the sight of the distant stars falling in the sky, and so they connived to sneak away for a better look. 

It seemed as if they had been walking for miles when suddenly, up ahead, there was the great rushing sigh of water, followed by the strong stench of privy. They were close. He and Dany pressed on even quicker now, hands tangled, and soon enough there was a faint bluish change of light ahead. Night. 

They splashed quietly through the infested water, getting soaked up to their waists in filth, until they emerged into a clearing where the sewage pooled. Jon doused the torch when he climbed out of the mouth. Then he helped Dany out, and shed his sodden cloak to the grass; she did the same. 

Beneath, Dany wore riding clothes: green leathers and a silk vest over a short tunic. Jon wore a dark tunic with a three-headed dragon sewn over his heart and breeches of black wool. Their gloves were fine leather, perfect for withstanding heat. 

"Do you see them?" he heard Dany ask, her words soft. 

Jon looked up. The sky was a deep, dark blue, pricked with a hundred thousand silver stars. One fell, streaking, then another, painting faint lines overhead. And then, there, a lean shape soaring, and behind him a shadow that could conquer worlds. 

"Drogon!" Dany raised her voice, emboldened by the empty streets around them. It was far too late for any well-meaning citizens, but the perfect time for crooks. Jon patted his leg for the knife strapped there. 

The shadow in the sky seemed to halt for a beat, channeling the wind backward, and then he dove, falling to the earth in a heap of hellish scales and leathery wings. The shadow moved so quickly, it was as if he were part of the sky. Drogon landed right where the sewage pooled, splashing shit-water in a rain down on them.

Dany screamed; Jon choked. "He did that on purpose," he groaned, "I'm sure of it."

"He didn't," Dany laughed, thirteen and lovely and glowing silver beneath the moonlight. She went to her beast and coaxed him from the water with loving words of High Valyrian. 

Drogon opened his eyes, two red-hot coals straight from the seventh hell, and _purred_. The black dragon was far and away the largest of the litter, almost twice the size of each of his three siblings. The span of his wings could douse King's Landing in darkness as if night, and he dined on horses whole. 

Jon looked up again. Rhaegal was still flying recklessly above the city, spreading his green wings wide toward the moon and screaming every so often. Viserion and Āegion were nowhere to be found, likely hunting over the sea or in the crownlands. They would ride Drogon tonight to the stars. 

Dany climbed on first, seating herself low on the dragon's long neck. In the first years of their dragons, leather seats had been mounted to the beasts' necks and strapped around the rider. Now, they rode bareback as dragonlords of old had done. They rarely flew double though, so when Jon climbed on next, he was forced to fit his thighs tight around Dany's own. She was older by a year, but small, and tucked neatly into the curve of his chest; the feel of her made him feel close to a man grown. 

"Ready?" she asked, leaning forward. Jon mumbled his assent and leaned forward too, molding his chest to her spine, and grasped at the thick midnight scales of Drogon's neck; even through his gloves, the dragon's heat radiated like a furnace, warming his blood. Dany grasped tightly as Drogon fidgeted restlessly, then shouted a command of High Valyrian.

Almost immediately the beast shifted, crouched, and _soared_. As every other time Jon went flying, it took his breath away. The feeling of earth giving way to sky, nothing beneath them but the lay of the land and rivers and seas, was unlike any other feeling in the world. Atop a dragon, Jon felt invincible. Castles were merely toys to knock down, foes only dolls that could burn like sawdust. And the icy Others would melt like snow beneath the furnace wind of the black, silver, cream, and green-and-bronze monsters. 

Over the wind, Dany whooped in thrill. Jon's face was buried in the silver of her hair, but he smiled all the same. Drogon soared higher and higher still, until Jon wondered if they would reach the moon. He was used to Rhaegal, the sleek lines of him and the graceful way he moved; Drogon was by comparison a giant that moved angrily. 

"Look!" Dany shouted excitedly as the dragon flew circles into the air. 

Jon looked. His mouth parted in wonder. They were so high, King's Landing seemed only bigger than his hand; the Red Keep was but a blemish, and the bay a dark glittering puddle. And all around them was the night sky, raked with an army of silver tails as stars fell by the hundreds. "It's beautiful," he said to no one. 

Dany's smile was even brighter than the field of starlight. "The gods are seeing you off," she said, repeating Maester Luwin's words from the feast. 

"Which ones?" he wondered. 

"All of them!" she exclaimed, turning to look over her shoulder at him. Jon blinked in surprise. The violet of her eyes was rendered vivid suddenly, as the night shower reflected back at him at all angles. He was surrounded by black and silver, the world drenched in them. 

He didn't know what made him blurt out his next words. "I'm going to miss you." He wondered if she could even hear over the flap of Drogon's wings as he kept them afloat. 

Dany had. Her excited smile turned sad, her eyes softening. He thought suddenly of how she was his best friend, of how difficult it truly would be to live away from her for so long. He had raised dragons from stone with her, had seen Dany's face nearly every day of his life so far. Now, he would go years. What would she look like the next time he saw her? Would she be married and living off in another kingdom? Would he burdened with another princess he called wife?

Dany lay a hand over his where it clenched desperately at Drogon's neck. "I will miss you, too. Promise you won't forget me?"

"Never," he told her truthfully. Daenerys Stormborn was frankly unforgettable. He was all at once desperately nostalgic for a life he had yet to leave behind. "Promise you'll visit me at Winterfell? You can ride Drogon north, and I'll race you in the snowfields."

Dany's small smile turned to a smirk, and there was purple fire in her eyes. The stars continued to fall to their silver deaths around them. "One day," she promised. And then she leaned back as best she could, and let the press of her mouth linger on his cheek. 

The next day, the memory of the kiss warmed him on the long trek north.


End file.
